


Everybody Wants

by littleconnections



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional Constipation, Erik is an idiot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 05:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18888112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleconnections/pseuds/littleconnections
Summary: Sam turns twenty-one in Vegas. Technically and practically that shouldn’t change anything.





	Everybody Wants

**Author's Note:**

> Hm, this went off into a slightly different vibe than I meant it to at the end but whatever. I'm very tired.

Sam turns twenty-one in Vegas. He makes a day of it, starting with champagne at midnight in his hotel room and ending with all Avs on this trip and all hanger-ons packed into fancy club. It’s loud and dark, flickering and thumping. They’ve taken over the VIP section. Erik is lounging on his seat, hand wrapped around his beer as he observes the room. Everyone is chatting, or dancing, or trying to pick up. Kerf is laughing at something Ryan said and Sam is making his way back from the bar. There are two shot glasses in his hands, slices of lemon balanced on top of them. He makes his way over to Erik, sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. His grin is infectious, wide, bright in the dim light and even though Erik knows it’s stupid he takes the shot when it’s offered to him. 

He watches Sam lick the salt off his wrist, eyes fixed on Erik, and the line of his throat when he takes the shot. He makes a face when he bites the lemon and Erik laughs.

“You should come dance.”

Sam’s at least a little drunk but so is Erik. He’s had more than this beer and the shot and feels good and loose with it. Good enough to dance and so he lets himself be dragged onto the dancefloor. It’s packed. The lights are dim and Sam is pressed against him, tight, bodies moving together and it’s the sort of music you can grind to and maybe, maybe Erik lets himself get a little into it. He can feel Sam all along his front, hot, sweaty. The thumping music in the background, vibrating. Sam leans into it, one hand splayed on his stomach. He looks up at Erik.

It’s not like Erik doesn’t know about Sam’s thing for him. He’s mostly ignored it, even when it tugs at him, when Sam leans against him, looks up to him. It’s harder than it should be. Sam is his rookie in every way that matters, his d partner and it’s not appropriate to want to pin him to the wall, even, maybe especially, if he looks like he wants you to.

He’s looking at Erik like that now. Head tipped back, throat exposed. Smiling just a little, sly at the corner of his mouth. He’s so, so close to Erik and it’s so hot in here and maybe Erik has had more to drink than he thought because he doesn’t look away, doesn’t move away. Some reasonable part of him is screaming but mostly he’s caught by Sam’s big, brown eyes. He feels pinned in place, even though they’re still moving, slow and off-rhythm.

The club is playing the sort of music where it’s hard to differentiate between one song and the next, the bass bleeding over into each other. It doesn’t matter, everything narrowed down to the sweaty press of their bodies, the way Erik can feel that Sam is hard against him. He likes that. He likes that more than he should but he doesn’t move away, just lets Sam press into him, watches his eyes flutter. There’s so much he’d do to him.

Eventually he does move away, off the dancefloor and towards the bar. Sam follows him, gets himself a beer when Erik gets one. Erik has seen Sam drunk with the team before, but he still laughs at the smug expression he makes when he’s handed his beer.

They’re still standing close, touching in a way that can almost be explained by the crowd. Arms pressed against each other, thighs. Erik lifts an arm and gets it around Sam’s shoulder, slides it lower until it’s resting along his back. He could go lower still, get a hand on Sam’s ass, pull him in. He doesn’t. Wants to, but doesn’t.

Sam is looking up at him again through his lashes, beer bottle resting against his lips.

“You should come to my room with me.”

Erik really, really shouldn’t. Erik should get them some waters and then go to bed. He takes a sip of his beer.

“It’s my birthday.”

Making him twenty-one to Erik’s thirty-one, Jesus fucking Christ. Erik doesn’t move away. The hand he has on Sam’s back flexes, fingers pushing into the muscles.

“Happy Birthday.”

Sam grins.

 

 

Sam kisses him in the elevator, hard. He gets up on his toes to do it and that’s not unusual for someone as tall as Erik but it almost makes him reconsider. Almost, because Sam’s mouth is wet and hungry and uncoordinated and he lets Erik hold him still with a hand on his jaw, goes with it when Erik pushes him away and holds still as Erik cups his face.

“Not here,” Erik says. “Anyone could see.”

 

 

Sam kisses him again when they’re finally in his room and it’s a full body thing this time. He’s pressing himself into Erik, all muscles, and now Erik gets a hand on his ass, hauls him in. Their jackets are the first things to go, followed by their shirts as they make their way over to the bed. Erik’s head is swimming. He doesn’t know if it’s the drinking or Sam, his mouth hot Erik’s collarbone now, sucking in a mark that’s sure to last.

When they’re naked and Erik has Sam under him on the bed it’s a hard choice which part of him to kiss first. He goes for the neck, trails his fingers along Sam’s chest, skating over fading playoff bruises. Sam shifts with him, into him. He’s hard. Erik keeps kissing him as he lets his hand wander down until he can wrap it around Sam’s cock. Sam makes a high, keening noise and Erik feels so, so smug. He tightens his grip, starts to move his hand, tip already wet with precum when Sam gasps.

“No.”

Erik stills instantly.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Erik looks at him. Sam’s read, flushed with sex and drinking. He looks directly at Erik, challenging, almost, but also like he knows what he wants and what he wants is Erik. It’s mind-blowing, a little bit.

“Well,” Erik says. “It is your birthday.”

Sam grins at him, kisses him again.

“I have—” he mumbles. “In my jeans—”

That seems like a lot of foresight for something but Erik isn’t going to think about it. He rolls off the bed and stumbles through the suit until he’s pulling a condom and a packet of lube out of Sam’s jeans. Stares at them, then turn back to where Sam is spread out on the bed, sweaty and flushed and ready.

Erik takes his sweet time getting Sam ready, getting his fingers in him, making him arch and gasp moan and when he finally slides into him it still feels like too much, so fucking hot and tight and good. Briefly Erik wonders if Sam has done this before, then shoves the thought far, far down.

Sam’s face has gone slack, mouth open, stupid and beautiful, his hands curled tight in the sheets. Erik kisses him as he starts to move, feels Sam shudder against him. Their skin is sweaty and slick, and they’re so close, Sam’s legs coming up around him, his arms to his shoulders as he holds on. Erik surrounds him, is in him and he never wants to be anywhere else.

It’s over too soon, Erik coming with a quick, tight shudder, Sam following behind with a hand around his own cock. He looks fucking blissed out and Erik can’t help but keep kissing him even after he’s disposed of the condom, when he should be gathering his clothes and going back to his own room. He keeps kissing Sam, who’s relaxing into the pillows, halfway to asleep and Erik can feel it too, the slow drop off into slumber. He’s out before he can resist.

 

 

Erik’s head hurts the next morning but not enough that he can blame what happened on it. He’s instantly aware of where he is, the warm weight of Sam’s body. Briefly he hopes Sam is still asleep, though he isn’t sure what he’ll do then either.

No such luck though. Sam’s awake, barely, brown eyes mostly slits when Erik looks over to him but definitely enough that he would notice if Erik tried to sneak away. Not that Erik would that.

Erik decides to take a shower.

He doesn’t have any good ideas there either. It seems strange and unreal now. Strange and unreal and stupid, fucking his much younger teammate, his fucking D partner (though who knows how long that’s gonna last now that Cale is here) on his birthday in Vegas, right before the offseason. His much younger teammate who’s had a crush on him all season and Erik—

Erik needs to get control of this situation. He needs to make sure Sam’s good and he needs to get out of here.

When he gets out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist because his clothes are strewn all over the room Sam is in the process of getting dressed. He’s got sweatpants on and he’s holding a shirt and he stares at Erik. Erik sees him swallow. Behind him the bed is rumpled, sheets pushed to the side and the window open, light soft.

“Good morning.”

Sam’s voice is soft. There’s something shy about him now, eyes flicking down, twisting his shirt in his hands. Not like he was last night. Because he was drunk, Erik thinks, and instantly feels worse.

“Hey,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.”

There’s a slight blush climbing Sam’s face and Erik is horrified to discover that he still, even after last night, wants to put his mouth on it.

“I need to get going,” Erik says. “My flight leaves soon, I have to get to Vail for my surgery. Are you gonna be fine?”

“Yeah.” Sam licks his lips, raises his eyes. “Can I suck you off before you go?”

Sam’s cheeks are red but he looks straight at Erik, eyes wide and brown. Erik should say no. Erik should get out of here and pack his stuff.

“Okay.”

It’s easy, so easy for Sam to get down on his knees, tug the towel out of the way. His mouth is hot and wet around his dick. He looks up at Erik. His eyes are so big, brown and wide, tears at the corners as he sucks Erik’s cock. Erik touches his hair, doesn’t look away.

 

 

Erik gets out of Vegas and goes to have shoulder surgery. It super fucking sucks. He makes an Instagram post about it, passes time reading the comments, leaving comments.

Sam leaves a string of hearts. Erik stares at it, swallows, then responds to Gabe instead.

 

 

Rehabbing an injury is both exhausting and boring. There’s physical therapy, meetings with doctors, exercises to keep in shape. It’s fucking tiring but it also does nothing to entertain Erik and at the end of the day he’s mostly too tired to go out with anyone. He can’t even do anything with his horses except visit the stables and talk to the trainers. 

Mostly he spends his time off bothering Gabe, who’s splitting his time between Stockholm and Denver. Tyson comes to visit for a couple of days, sits on his couch and drinks all his beer and cheers him up immensely.

He doesn’t text Sam.

Or, that’s not true. He does text Sam sometimes; it seems cruel to just drop out of contact completely. But it’s sporadic and mostly nonsense, designed to keep distance.

Sam tries at first. He texts about his day, and random comments at things he thinks about. He drops some hints about visiting, of Erik coming to Quebec. Erik shuts all that down really quickly.

About halfway through the offseason a girl starts showing up in Sam’s Instagram. She’s pretty, long blond hair and good figure, judging by the pics of both of them at the pool.

Her name is Kelly, Erik figures out through her profile and she keeps showing up. It’s probably good, Erik decides, that Sam is moving on. It’s not like Erik is pining or something. It’s something he thinks about occasionally, maybe, but they’ll see each other again when the season starts and it’s better for everyone if they can both put it behind them.

He decides Kelly looks like bitch, but whatever, he’s not dating her.

 

 

Erik gets back to Colorado at the last minute before training camp starts. Last minute enough that he misses drinks at Gabe’s annual, casual Well-Guess-We’re-Doing-This-Again-Boys get together. Whatever, he’ll be there at the much more official, post-training camp Welcome-To-The-Team-We’re-Fucking-Doing-It-This-Year-Boys barbecue.

Training camp seems to get harder every year, which probably means he’s getting old. It doesn’t help that rehabbing his shoulder didn’t give him the best options for offseason training so he needs every bit of concentration to get through it.

He maybe notices that Sam isn’t spending time with him, not really acknowledging him outside of drills but he doesn’t have time for it right now. They fucked at the beginning of summer. It’s whatever now, Sam has clearly moved on.

Or maybe not because by the time preseason starts properly Kelly still hasn’t shown up and Erik gets to overhear Colin ask Sam about it.

“We broke up,” Sam says. “She didn’t wanna do long distance.”

It’s definitely not mature or detached or ‘over it’ to feel as smug as Erik does hearing that but he can’t help it. It’s a vicious feeling, right in the center of his chest, too pleased.

 

 

It makes him think things might be okay. That maybe he’s imaging that Sam is avoiding him, just busy with training camp and Bednar not putting them together this season. He’s mostly got Sam working with Cale, clearly trying to spark something dynamic and amazing with the two of them. They seem to like hanging out off the ice too, always chatting and giggling, the way they are right now.

The way Erik and Sam used to.

He wanders over them and slings an arm around Sam, casual. He feels him stiffen; pretends he doesn’t notice.

“How are you doing, mon chum?”

“That’s Cale now,” Sam says and it’s meaner than anything Erik has ever heard from him. He lets go, steps away from Sam a little. Cale looks between them, clearly confused.

Sam looks at Erik. He’s still sweaty from training, half out of his gear. His face is all red and Erik has to think about what he looked like when he fucked into him, sweat soaked and happy. Now Sam’s mouth is a flat line and he’s looking straight at Erik, cool and distant.

“Right.” Erik says. “That’s—good. Good to see you two working out so well together.”

“Thanks?” Cale ventures. Same doesn’t say anything and after a second Erik pulls his gaze away and awkwardly shuffles back over to his won stall to finish undressing.

“Something going on with you two?”

It’s part of Gabe’s job to figure out if there’s tension between teammates, to keep the team running smoothly, in sync. Gabe is asking as his captain, but there’s a sharp fold between his beautiful eyebrows that tells Erik he’s also asking as a friend.

“Nah,” Erik says. “Rookie’s just growing up.”

Gabe snorts, so he clearly doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t push it.

 

 

Once the season starts it’s mostly Sam and Cale together. They’re on fire, a dynamite, dynamic, offensive pair. Sometimes it seems like they’re unstoppable on the ice. They stay close in the locker room, too. Erik thinks maybe they’re road roommates.

It’s stupid to be jealous of rookie coming into his first season in the NHL for stealing his D partner. This was always how it was going to go and Erik is enough of a professional not to blame Cale for decisions the coaching staff makes. He’d just gotten used to having Sam there, relying on him. They’d had a good thing going and it’s not like Erik minds playing with any of the other defensemen on this team but Sam’s still not really talking to him and it’s a little hard not to resent Cale when he catches sight of the two of them together.

He misses his friend, that’s all.

 

 

It gets a little better as the season passes. Sometimes Sam will talk to Erik and it will almost be like normal, back last season. Simple and fun and Sam beside him, cute and easy to talk to. Then something will happen and Sam will withdraw and Erik will notice the hole beside him, the space where he feels Sam should be. Where he wants him to be.

 

 

Maybe it would have all gone okay except there’s that one night, that one game. Bednar puts them back together. He wants to try Cale with some of the other D, see what he’s got there.

They have a blast of a night in front of the home crowd. Everyone is on fire, Grubi keeping everything out of the net and the whole first line scores. Sam gets two, one assisted by Erik. Erik gets one, assisted by Sam.

When he crashes into the glass for his celly, arms open Sam is the first one to barrel into him. He looks up at Erik, face open, fierce and beautiful and Erik’s heart turns over in his chest. Oh, he thinks. He’s not over this. He’s not going to be over this for a while. JT is screaming in his ear and all he wants to do is lean down and press his mouth to Sam’s, right here on the ice.

It's just a moment, a beautiful, open, unguarded moment and it floors Erik like a punch to the face. He’s fucking stupid.

He’s fucking stupid for a number of reason and having a grand realization about his feelings in the middle of a game is one of them. They still have half a period to play and every time Erik looks over Sam it feels like he’s going to choke on his own heart. He can’t tell if the way his blood is rushing in his ears if from them game or because of the way Sam meets his eyes, determined, like he knows this game is special.

Like he knows what Erik knows.

They win it six to zero and the whole locker room is singing afterwards, music cranked up. It’s the sort of win where the celebration isn’t optional and Erik doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. Good because he’ll know exactly where Sam is. Bad because even if he just realised how truly, monumentally he’d fucked up he still doesn’t know how to fix it.

All he knows is he has to try.

But Sam is looking at him now, even after they left the ice. It feels stupid to be hopeful about that because Sam has made his feeling about Erik plenty clear these last weeks. It’s ridiculous to think that one amazing, magical, win-it-all game has changed that but maybe it’s enough. Maybe it’s shifted enough.

They go to a bar they go a lot, the sort of place that’s upscale enough to have a huge drink menu and not so upscale that they’ll mind anybody getting rowdy. They take over a couple of tables and Erik manages to finagle it so that he’s sitting next to Sam. It probably helps that Sam doesn’t try to dodge his finagling.

Erik has a beer but that’s all he’s going to have. There’s still enough adrenaline coursing through his veins that he doesn’t feel like he needs it and he wants this time to be different than last time. If there’s going to be a this time.

He gets Sam a beer too, hands it to him when he takes his seat. Sam takes it, looks up at him. It’s appraising, weighted and Erik is surprised how nervous he is.

There’s tension between them. There’s been tension between them all season, all last season. Different sorts of tension with different sorts of meaning. Erik feels like maybe this one right now is a good one.

A bar with a hockey team celebrating a blowout win is not a good place to start a conversation, so Erik doesn’t even try. He sits next to Sam, thighs pressed up against each other and tries not to read into the fact that Sam doesn’t move away from him, not even after more space frees up as guys take to the dancefloor, the first ones, the ones with kids, get themselves out the door and home to their families.

Erik drinks his beer and tries to think of what he can say to Sam.

Sam puts his beer down and looks at Erik.

“I think we should go to your house now.”

That’s enough for Erik. There’s a quarter of his beer left, but whatever. He drains it, and they leave, barely saying goodbye to their teammates. Erik didn’t even have enough to drink to keep him from driving them home.

Sam doesn’t say anything in the passenger seat, just stares out the window. Erik keeps glancing at him as he drives, at red lights. He looks quiet, serene. He looks good.

Erik’s house is empty and dark. He flicks on the lights and they walk in, towards the living room. Erik doesn’t exactly know what he wants to do now. He feels like he should offer Sam a drink, but they just left the bar. He feels like he should explain himself but he doesn’t feel like he has the words to capture the feeling. He wants to look at Sam but he can’t. He wants to look but he doesn’t want to see.

“If we have sex tonight will you spend the next months ignoring me?”

Sam is looking at him when Erik turns to face him. He’s standing in the middle of Erik’s living room, chin jutting out, eyes fierce. He looks like the picture of composure, like everything Erik wants. It’s only the line of tension of his shoulders, the way his right hand his clenched at his side that gives him away.

“I’m sorry I did that.” Erik says.

“Yeah. You should be.”

Erik wants to go over to him and he thinks maybe he’s allowed. Sam came to his house with him, after all. Sam was the one who proposed his.

Sam shudders when Erik touches his face, tilts himself up into him, into the kiss. It lights Erik on fire, the press of his mouth, the soft touch of his tongue against Erik’s. There’s no reason for Sam to let him do this again but he’s here, hands clutching at Erik’s shirt, pushing up. He’s here and he’s letting Erik kiss him.

Later he takes Sam upstairs and takes him apart on his bed, lets him sleep there and drives him to practice the next morning. Later they talk more about Erik being stupid and about Erik being in love and about Sam. Later they figure things out. 

Right now kissing is enough.


End file.
